A Moment of Pause

A Moment of Pause

Who are you there?

As time folds upon itself- closed; a prone cocoon.

A mind weighted with the aftermaths

Seeing death as vapid black-waters.

Inertia dulls

And molds the moments into formless

Freaks and demons that dominate

All senses and then chews their desiccated presence.

Something happened

 I am afraid to remember;

 for the night keeps my secrets

 and the day discusses my faults.

Heavy darkness

Evaporated as dawn’s light blinked

Awake the bemused butterfly

With wings colored of splendid rainbows.

Something happened

 I am afraid to remember;

And the wounds will all heal into scared

Lines of poetry that portray joy and pain.

Never A Dull Moment

Say do you have a moment?

No, I have not. I can not offer a moment to give; why do you ask?

Because I have lost the time.

Hmmm … and so, what time did you once have?

No-no, I mean I have the time however, I do not know the time.

Ahh – I see.  You wish for a moment from me – so to understand the time?

Yes – yes, that is exactly it; a timely point please!

Just a moment then - if you please to wait for just one more moment…

There.

There is your moment and the time is now relative, half past existential.

Was there anything else now?

Sorry, you misunderstand me.  May I have your moment at this moment?

You mean to take my momentum so to move your moment of inertia?

Well yes, but it will be momentarily – nothing more – nothing less.

I can see that we have arrived at a moment of truth; you have a moment and

you also want my moment?

Yes, any moment now will do.

You want to cease the moment.

Indeed, however only in this very moment.

Fine we will have a moment of truth while the butterfly lights upon your blooming thoughts.

Just a moment please …

There.

There is your second moment; never less a moment and never more a moment.

Thank you!  There is never a dull moment with butterflies.

              Your observation is a matter of perception for the obtuse transformation

   of the chrysalis becomes a keen moment for the butterfly. 

More or Less a Moment

More or Less a Moment  

How does being lost fit within the ancient map lines?

Grids and contours that vicariously form the directions and paths to take leave

Or plot out the forgotten places with the unfamiliar names

To forget once again - in the blink of a moment.

And, if in that moment 

One escapes from the present moment –

Then is now more

Or less then existence?

Saving time to have more; 

Or killing time to have less?

The insanity of those notions allows for the deception

That ego somehow controls time with invention of the clock dial

And that somehow time has a face and hands

That tell of time and measure life – nice and neatly.

When indeed, the bull will gore you;

The bear will consume you;

The fall will maim you.

And yet, waiting will waste you

While anticipating a pot to boil.

However, on the other hand, time flies

When the executioner counts the seconds

To complete the appointed deed.

It is often quoted, “Carpe Diem”

Cease the moment!

As if it were an ice cream cone

Or the verge of a leap that invites

Carefree or careless; Impulse…

I suppose that the consequence or outcome

Determines whether damnation or praise will be eulogized.

The view and sentiment is all arbitrary

And completely contrary!

Because being in the moment 

Is when one becomes one

With unreachable forces such as

The Wind - Blue Skies - the Song of birds.

These each are however attainable - romantically,

With love and respect of the moment

And the place

On this infinite timeline

That exists only in the sentient mind.

An imaginary moment

Of the moment

At the moment.

Listen, silence is the speak of the universe

And nothingness is never more

Or is ever less than this very moment.

Moment To Transform

Moment to Transform

If you can catch papilio

Then you can ask,

“Did you conform?”.

If you can stop a moment

Then you might find

That less and more do not make form.

If you can define duration

Then life may not measure

The form, or sense the transform nor anticipate the reform.

If you understand why the butterfly

And not flowers; nor the hours;

Then, the moment is the source of the storm.

If in dreams the subconscious obeys no physical or spiritual limits

And fear of reality hesitates with faulting doubts

Then, this is the very moment (the moment of truth) to transform.

Sonnet: Moment

Sonnet: Moment

Flutters along without measured straight lines

Abides by no plan nor complies with time

Other than to pursue the flowered rhymes

There is no more; there is no less - design

As each moment fails and wins each moment

Ephemeral there - to here and to there

Chasing thoughts is losing what was meant

Having no schemes - one can pursue nowhere

For butterflies are transformational

Their place and reason - divine resonance

Between moments of sweet assignation

The duration is a fleeting romance

Shall the moment’s purpose be less or more    

Need life be longer than a moment’s store

Colors and Illusions

Colors and Illusions

No one ever asked me if the sky is really blue.

Nor did anyone exclaim about the dark changes in hue.

Nor do blind children alarm at gathering storms in clouds of black.

And what romantic seafarer could not wonder about the reds,

“Is the horizon bursting into flames as it is consumed by the sun’s threads?"

Of all the times one travels, to then sit and ponder the moment’s worth;

the journey itself, is made more precious by the fellow travelers one shares mirth

and folly with while discovering along the wondering way that fear is an illusion

and that happiness is but a chance encounter of perception, in a time and a place,

where one understands that geography itself, blends into a oneness without a face.

Day and Night: irresistible forces each conceding to the other’s presence

and so, time slips by leaving behind whatever was;

tempting the Now with the illusion that time is of the essence.

Here we are in the moment. There is enterprise here -

between the graying strands of daylight

and the moonless night

before the ancient overseer

and beyond the sky blue light...

Home, is as intimate as inner prayer

or as distant as an unreachable horizon;

monoliths formed with stones of romance and nightmare

before disintegrating within the stores of memory’s ware.

Loss, any loss has a familiar story

however, each one is set in unfamiliar circumstance; so sorry

grieving is hard - even as loss drives the heart to hell in a blank trance

waiting for the forgiving words that are somehow estranged in the scars of the heart

as the rivers of tears drown out the questions of the illusionary art

asking, “Is there blue in the waters or is the blue all in your mind?"